


Spirits in the Dark

by animasevera



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bodyguard Romance, Drinking, F/M, Healing, Justice, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Anders/Karl Thekla, Pre-Relationship, Very Secret Diary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 07:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animasevera/pseuds/animasevera
Summary: Life in Kirkwall is quickly taking its toll on Lysandra Hawke. She knows exactly where to go for healing, but she may find more than she expected in the healer.





	Spirits in the Dark

Every step Hawke took made her vertebrae grind against one another. Her spine bowed like a rotted beam about to give way under the sinking weight of an old cellar. Her staff became more walking stick than weapon, and the bones of her feet pressed into the soles of her boots as if gripped by a vise. Nerves and muscles gnarled in the alcoves of her temples, throbbing and tightening with each stray noise. Bright halos danced in her field of view as she ducked into the entrance to Darktown.  
  
_Find the lit lantern..._  
  
She had already spent most of her mana just trying to banish the pain coursing through her body. As she rounded a corner, she muttered a curse at the sharp, hot twinge that went up her hip. It must have come, she thought, from the way she ungracefully landed on her backside during a fight earlier that day. Her attacker was left unconscious, injured, but alive. She could only limp away, and went directly to the Hanged Man to drink the pain away.  
  
But last call came hours ago, and Varric had gone to bed shortly after. So, she had begun a slow, agonizing pilgrimage to the clinic. Much as she loathed to disturb Anders, she had little other choice. Sleep was nowhere to be found with her body and mind as aching and exhausted as they were. Perhaps the solution would be as simple as some herbal tinctures and yet another strongly delivered advisement to rest. Already, she was hearing his voice in her head, with the way it dropped and cracked with worry as he practically pleaded with her to get some rest. She saw the flare of light behind his amber eyes igniting with concern, their corners pressing together with urgency as he mixed up another potion. A blush flared up in her cheeks, and somehow the aches didn't seem so intense.  
  
She saw something else flare at the end of the next turn.  
  
A _lan_ tern.  
  
_**The clinic.**_  
  
She moved with creaks and groans through the clinic, careful not to disturb the sleeping patients, until she made her way back to Anders' quarters. A slow peek around the bookcases--  
  
He was gone. Her blood already began to run cold as she imagined where he might have been. Nothing _seemed_ out of place - the stained, worn blanket that usually covered his bed had been moved aside, as if he simply got out of bed. Everything else was in a state of ordered chaos, typical of the clinic on an average day. His patients were mostly resting peacefully, aside from one mother attempting to hush her crying, colicky baby. This would rule out any kind of violence, as these innocent bystanders would likely be in a panicked state otherwise. Slowly, quietly, she examined the area further in search of clues.  
  
The only thing of apparent importance was a journal tucked just inside the edge of the bedframe. Carefully, she pried it loose and opened it to the most recent entry, dated yesterday. Curiosity inevitably began to prod, and she found herself poring over the entry in hopes of learning more about the man who wrote it. In her focus, she came to sit on his bed. Wherever he was, he would likely return soon.  
  
"Hawke!"  
  
Perhaps _too_ soon.  
  
She slammed the journal shut and leapt to her feet the instant she heard her name. "A-anders?!" It was a relief to hear his voice, but from the tone of it, the meeting would not be pleasant.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, "And why are you looking through my journal?" He hurried over to her and snatched the book away. "...You didn't read any of it, did you?"  
  
Hawke felt herself shrink at his words. "You weren't here when I came in," she explained as her gaze dropped sheepishly to her boots. "I'd come in for something to deal with all the pain I'm in, but you were nowhere in sight. I was worried you might've been--"  
  
"You can stop worrying," Anders interrupted, scrutinizing the journal for signs of damage or tampering. "You'd know if something had happened. Now, if you don't mind..."  
  
"Do you want me to go?" she asked, fully ready to give the healer as much space as needed. She was, after all, in what passed for his personal quarters. Even her pain could wait, if it had to - she had lived through worse and would readily do so again.  
  
"No!" he snapped, before he could stop himself. He sighed as he saw Lysandra wince, shaking his head and raising a hand to halt her reaction. "N-no, Hawke. You're hurting and you came to me for help. It would be wrong for me to turn you away...especially after what you've done for me." He invited her to sit back down on his bed. "Besides, you're actually pleasant enough company, when you aren't rooting about in my things." His tone softened, but kept an edge.  
  
"...Sorry about that," Lys replied as her eyes screwed shut.  
  
"It's not a big deal." He slipped away to the shelves to retrieve a small glass flask. "It's just..." His shoulders rose with a breath and fell with a sigh as he sank down onto the bed. "Back in the Circle, we didn't have privacy." A bow became visible in his back. "The Templars had the right to search your quarters any time they suspected you of having anything forbidden...which was to say, basically, any time they wished. Sometimes they'd just do it to remind you of your place, or to take something valuable for themselves." He handed her the bottle.  
  
Hawke's mouth dried up in that instant. The pain and weakness in her body suddenly felt insignificant. The cramped, unpleasant space she shared with her family became downright _welcoming_ for a moment. Even the trudge through Darktown was at least taken of her own accord. She quietly thanked the Maker that she did not have to endure such an experience. "...Maker's breath, I had no idea. I've been over here whining about my own petty bullshit when I know for a fact you've had it worse." Her shoulders hunched and tightened around the rest of her as she stared down at the bottle in her hands.  
  
Anders shook his head. "The mages still in the Circle have it worse than both of us. The conversation we're having right now would not be possible. They'd likely have shipped you off to another country by now." In that instant, his eyes turned dark and somber as he allowed them to meet hers. "Look, my point is, you don't need to read my journal if you want to know something. I'd honestly appreciate it if you'd just ask."  
  
Hawke nodded in acknowledgment. "Yeah, but you weren't here and I didn't know where you were."  
  
"Just wait here, then," he directed. "I'll usually turn up within half an hour. And there's no harm in just calling my name. At least that way, I'll know it's you and not another Templar come to hunt me down." His heart tremored in his chest and he tightened his hands into fists. "I don't want to _think_ about actually hurting you, Hawke. But Justice..."  
  
She frowned and turned her body to face him. The vision of Justice bursting loose from his control still haunted her mind - but so did his words:  
  
_**"You will NEVER take another mage as you took him!**_ "  
  
She barely knew Karl. His name had just been told to her hours before she watched him used as a trap to lure the healer out of hiding, restored from Tranquility, and begging for death. All she had connected him with was the oppression of mages, and Anders' anguish. Yet, in that moment in the Chantry, she felt all the rage and grief Anders held inside him. Justice himself was unquestionably terrifying, but his presence also brought on a sense of awe in her that she could not explain in mortal words. Even so, she treaded carefully along the lines of Anders' mental territory - he knew himself better than she could. What she _did_ know, though, was that learning more about Justice would be beneficial to everyone involved.  
  
"Any idea what sets him off?" she asked, sincerely curious. "Even demons can't be that unpredictable--"  
  
A blue glow flashed in the back of Anders' eyes and crackled through his skin. When the light died down, he buried his head in his hands.  
  
Hawke slowly lowered her arm, peering cautiously over her elbow. "Well," she said dryly, "That answers _one_ question. Does not like to be called a demon." She straightened her posture and returned to her casual mien. "So far that's Templars and demons. Or at least, being called one."  
  
Anders' shoulders shook, but he said nothing.  
  
Hawke's frown returned. She could not hope to grasp the feeling of having a spirit inside one's mind, ready to take control at any possible trigger. Yet, her new knowledge, though little, set her mind more at ease. "Anyway," she pointed out, "It might be a good idea if we learn what makes Justice tick. If we do that, we'll have a better chance of keeping him under control."  
  
"He _is_ listening, you know," Anders finally responded, letting his hands fall into his lap. "He doesn't want to be controlled, and he's wary of you for trying."  
  
Lys bit her tongue as she remembered her wording. "I didn't mean it like that..." She shifted her position on the bed and attempted to clarify. "...What I mean is we know he's _there_ , we know he _feels_ things. It seems like if we were able to know more, we could..." Her words trailed off as she searched for the best ones to convey her meaning. "...I don't know, I suppose it's more like I want to help him, but I don't know how." Her gaze shifted off to the side, and she squinted as her head started to throb. "I _do_ know there's something more there than just 'angry, destructive, Templar-hating spirit.' We can start there." The more she actually spoke of the spirit feeling things, the more plausible the idea became.  
  
Anders was now visibly holding his own arms, shivering as if cold. "...Weren't you here for healing?" he asked, somewhat urgently. "We can worry about me and Justice later," he insisted. "He's realized you're not a threat. That'll keep us safe for now." Every word out of his mouth felt rushed and clipped, but genuinely concerned. "You need to get those herbs in you and get some rest."  
  
Her shoulders sank as he turned her attention away from him and back to the pain racking her body. Already, she was anticipating the slow trudge back to Gamlen's house - her feet spasmed at the very idea. "Could I stay the night?" she asked, "Gamlen's house is a long way back from here and I'm never going to get any sleep if he wakes up. Besides that..." A twinge of pain shot up her damaged leg. "If someone ambushes me in this state, I might not make it out alive."  
  
Anders' knees pressed against one another, and his shoulders squared. A heavy sigh deflated his chest, and he gave a resigned nod. His eyes never met hers once. "Yeah, you might as well. Just..." His gaze drifted to the side for a split second, in the direction of the journal in his bedframe. "Don't go through my things again."  
  
"Got it," she reassured him. "Would it be better if I slept somewhere else in the clinic?"  
  
He fell silent for a moment, eyes wandering to a corner of the room and lingering until they glazed. "Yes--" When he saw her struggle to move, he held up his hands to stop her. "N-no! I mean..." He hastily shook his head. "...No," he finally said, once he was able to catch his breath and arrange his words. "Go ahead and stay here. You're a guest, after all." As he spoke, he leaned back over the bed and hooked his arms around a long, rolled bundle. "Here," he held it out to her, "Extra bedroll. Set it up anywhere you like." Just making the offer lifted some sort of weight off his shoulders. "Just...not too close to my bed. Have to put my feet down _somewhere_ when I get up. Wouldn't want to give you a face full of unwashed apostate foot odor." A quiet chuckle broke loose from his chest behind his words much like he had done from the Circle so many times.  
  
Hawke was a bit more open with her laughter as she took the bedroll, immediately laying it in the corner opposite the room from his. "Somehow, I feel like I'd also have to worry about getting your long limbs tangled around me like some kind of magical squid." The mental image made her think of Carver in his younger years, insistent on sharing her bed when nightmares tormented him. Bethany would inevitably join them out of a desire not to be left alone. Her smile flitted in the space between blinks, but quickly returned to its post. "You know, Carver used to do that. I'd have to kick him out after a while though, because he'd keep kicking me in the leg, and then Bethany would show up and they'd both hog the bed..." She soon trailed off as she noticed the way her voice strained to keep her previous light tone.  
  
"...You miss her," he observed, a note of melancholy in his voice.  
  
She pulled her eyes away from his as the corners of her lips dropped. "...Yeah," she muttered. Even speaking of Carver as she did brought on a cloud of guilt for the way she had treated him since they had come to Kirkwall. She had already been blaming herself for Bethany's death, and his insistence on arguing with their uncle only worsened affairs for the both of them. If it wasn't Gamlen, it was almost inevitably Hawke herself. To that end, she decided she would rather keep herself as busy as possible outside the house. This often meant staying at the Hanged Man with Varric for the night. They would share a meal and drinks, swap stories - his always far more well-told - and perhaps play a game of Wicked Grace before drunken fatigue set in and put them both out. Now, though, she could nearly feel the widening rift between her and her brother. She had been blaming him, blaming herself, blaming Gamlen for their state of affairs. It was no wonder her younger sibling complained so often.  
  
He shifted his hips along the bed, closing the distance between them a bit. "...Seems like we've all lost someone in our lives lately."  
  
Hawke briefly thought of Karl, but ultimately decided against bringing him up. This night was too late to wake the dead again. "It's too late to beat ourselves up over," she said, with some resignation as she opened the small bottle he handed her. "...What is this stuff anyway?"  
  
"Tincture of elfroot and embrium," Anders answered without hesitation. "The herbs will kill your pain, and the spirits will help you sleep. It's going to taste a bit--"  
  
Hawke broke into a fit of gagging that dissolved into a long croak of pain. "Like shit!" she said when finally able to form words.  
  
Anders could not resist a chuckle. "Yeah, it's not delicious. Heard one guy compare it to drinking chokedamp. But half an hour later, he was sleeping like a baby and when he woke up the next morning, the pain had only just started to come back."  
  
Before he had finished his sentence, Hawke had clamped her nose shut with a hand and was pouring the bottle directly down her throat. When it was empty, she let the flask fall to the floor, though it fortunately did not break. With her eyes bulging and tearing up, she dug into her belongings until she found a drinking skin made from the bladder of some animal, taking a hard swig of its contents and gasping as she came up for air. "If that's what I have to go through every time I come down here for healing, I think I'm just going to stick to getting blind shitting drunk with Varric and Isabela."  
  
"You'd really trade me for letting Varric talk your ear off?" asked the healer. His tone was easy, but cracked with the worry that she was serious. There was no one else in Kirkwall to whom he could open up so easily. "Besides, the pub is loud and filthy, and full of the sorts who want to either grab your arse or your coin purse. If it's rest you're after, no better place than here."  
  
Hawke lurched over to the bedroll, lying back on it and resting a hand on her gut as she felt it burn from the alcohol. Admittedly, the clinic was rather placid at this time of night. Even with the chokedamp in the air and the dirt walling them in on all sides, the relative quiet was enough to ease her mind. If Templars came, they would have to get through a crowd of angry patients, on top of Darktown's other denizens. The pub wasn't as unpleasant as Anders believed, though - on the nights she stayed, Varric would let her sleep in the bed, while he took the large armchair for himself. They would share the warmth of the fireplace, passing some time with light conversation until sleep inevitably took one of them.  
  
Anders' remark about miscreants in the pub made her let out a dry snort. "You're worried about _me?_ Should be worried about _them._ I've broken a few fingers lately." She sounded proud of herself.  
  
Now that she had mentioned it, though, Anders did remember a handful of people coming to him with broken fingers, hands and wrists. Their cited reason had almost always been "pub fight," which he hardly batted an eye at before. " _Must_ you break the bones every time?" he asked in halfhearted protest. "Every time you do that, I end up having to deal with them. Much as Justice would like to let them suffer, if I don't heal them I'm worried they might run off to the Templars or something. Besides that, it's not like it's worth killing them." His gaze rose up to the ceiling and traced the faint outlines of fungus growing there. "We've no idea what connections they might have."  
  
"Gotta send the message somehow," Hawke retorted, cracking her knuckles. The rest of Anders' point, though, she couldn't argue with - any effort to protect himself was forgivable. The mention of the Templars made her flesh crawl as always, and worry cracked its way through the stone wall she had built around her heart. "That said, though...I think I _will_ be coming by more often."  
  
The healer's posture straightened, and he stared over at the other mage. "Oh?" he asked with mild, albeit pleasant, surprise. "What for? Surely I'm not _that_ interesting..."  
  
"Oh _n_ _ooo,_ " she drawled, thick with sarcasm and her native Fereldan accent. "You're _horribly_ dull. I'd rather listen to one of the Revered Mother's sermons about how we ought to all join hands and sing the Chant until we're blue in the face." Pointedly rolling her eyes, she shook her head and assumed a more serious mien. "I want to keep watch on this place, and on you. It's one of the few safe places for anyone in Kirkwall that doesn't shit coin." A frown gripped the corners of her lips. "I want to keep it that way."  
  
Anders' expression mirrored Lysandra's, but quickly became more intense. "You don't need to risk your own safety for me, Hawke," he insisted, "Your family needs you."  
  
A spark of defiance lit behind narrow hazel eyes - Hawke didn't like being talked down, even by those she looked at as friends. "You say that like Carver's chopped liver."  
  
"Your mother's already lost _one_ child," Anders pointed out, "Do you really want to risk her--"  
  
" _Anders_ ," Hawke ripped the end of Anders' sentence right out of the air as she sat up. "I'm an apostate. I take that risk every day just by being alive, let alone outside the Circle. I'm not about to start hiding from the world over it." Now suddenly restless, she stood up and leaned against the dirt wall with one leg crossed over the other. "And I'm certainly not about to abandon this place or these people. They need _someone,_ and _you_ need help." She set her fiery gaze on his own, as if she was trying to reach not just him, but the spirit inside.  
  
The thrum in his chest and the hiss of his nerves were a telltale sign that Justice's attention had been aroused. Intrigue and wariness knotted together behind his brows, and he broke their shared vision with a sigh as he began massaging his temples. "Somehow, I suspect you're not exactly the type who takes no for an answer."  
  
"Not for this," Hawke confirmed, her own eyes staying locked with intent on the healer. "I already can't sleep at night as it is. I certainly can't do it knowing there's children down here starving and young pups letting people do Maker-knows-what to them for coin." The rush of her blood forced her away from the wall into a fervent pace in front of the bedroll. "The rest of my family gets to at least have a roof over their head and food in their stomachs. Every time I come down here, I have to look at all this. Maker take me if I don't do _something_ about it. Besides, there's that whole magic-serving-man thing--"  
  
"You've made your point," said Anders, but his tone had begun to settle as he drew calming breaths. "I didn't mean I didn't want your help, Hawke. It's just..." Before he continued, he lay back into his old straw mattress and let his eyelids shut. "...The closer you are to me, the more chance there is for the Templars to get to you. Being an apostate's bad enough by itself, but associating with me..." Karl's face flashed back into his mind's eye, his pleas for death still fresh in his ears. He covered his face with both hands, choking back a sigh as tears briefly welled up in his eyes. Dropping his arms limp at his sides, he stared numbly into the space overhead. "...You saw what happened to Karl." His own voice sounded just as dead as if he were Tranquil himself.  
  
Hawke's fists clenched at her sides as she thought of Anders' late lover - a complete stranger to her, but somehow closer now than he was in life. "Yeah, I saw." As she turned back in his direction, her fingers loosed and her shoulders sank under an invisible weight. "But I'm not going to change my mind. This is too important to me."  
  
Anders stayed silent for a moment that tangibly ticked by. In truth, he had little ground to stand on to argue against her - he was just as devoted to his cause, and to helping Kirkwall's desperate populace. Her words, though, caused something to resonate deep within him. With a long, burdened sigh through his nostrils, he gave her a distant, tired gaze. "Let's not speak any more of it tonight," he suggested, "We'll work out the details some other time. For now, you ought to try to get some rest so that tincture can take effect."  
  
Hawke replied with a yawn as she lowered herself back onto the bedroll. "Fair enough," she murmured languidly, her voice croaking with fatigue. The spirit of the tincture had finally begun to settle in her senses, and she could ill focus to string words together. "Thanks for...that," she rumbled with drunkenness.  
  
"Any time," said Anders, his words breaking into a yawn of his own. "Good night, Hawke," he said to her, a subtle cue for her to sleep. He wasn't about to fall asleep himself, not for a long while. Hawke sleeping, however, would allow him the space to be alone with his thoughts without fearing being alone with his demons.  
  
The other apostate murmured something back, unintelligible, as she rolled away from him to face the opposite wall.  
  
Anders sighed. He felt the ache and exhaustion of labor in his body for a breath's pause before Justice's energy numbed him. He had been numb for days, possibly a week, barely feeling anything in his own body, including the pangs of hunger and thirst. He knew that his body would need sustenance sooner or later, but it always seemed like he could push himself just a bit further. It was usually the concern of his patients that reminded him to take care of himself; a small child noting that his belly was growling, or an old crone pointing out the bags under his eyes.  
  
And yet, he sat up. He sat, and then he stood, and then he left the alcove.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
